The walls of the Via del Mare locker room hummed with the residual adrenaline of sixty-five intense minutes. Players flooded in, still buzzing, some clapping hands for no reason other than to keep their heartbeats from racing too fast. Others stood bent over, hands on knees, panting hard, jerseys soaked with sweat and streaked with grass stains. The stench of effort hung palpable in the air, a mix of musk, energy, and raw determination.
Nikola Krstovic, the man who had delivered the lone goal of the match, found a seat near the benches. He cupped his face with both hands, elbows resting on knees, pulse still hammering like a war drum. His eyes flickered with a mix of relief and wonder, as if he still couldn't believe he'd done it. The weight of that penalty, the pressure of a thousand hopes, still felt heavy.
Gallo stormed in next, tossing his water bottle aside with a heavy clatter. "That Biraghi shove was dirty," he muttered, replaying the memory in his mind. His jaw twitched, nostrils flared. He paced a little before collapsing on the bench, head in his hands.
Banda appeared behind him, stretching his hamstrings and grinning like he'd just walked out of a street fight victorious. His grin was wide and slightly wild, eyes twinkling with adrenaline-laced excitement. Next to him, Medon Berisha sat calm and collected as ever, though even he couldn't hide a slight grin, those big arms draped casually over the back of the bench betrayed his excitement.
Alex Walker waited patiently at the front of the room, leaning against the whiteboard. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes sparked with intensity. He scanned his players, every face told a story of physical strain and emotional charge. Let them simmer a few seconds more, he thought, let the roar of the pitch fade just a little, then make sure their feet were back under them.
He clapped his hands once, sharp and deliberate.
"Alright. Everyone. Eyes here," he said calmly, and the room responded out of instinct. The claps, sighs, and shifting feet hushed down. All eyes turned to the man in charge.
Alex stepped forward, adjusting the marker in his hand. His chest rose and fell slowly, a measured breath, collected before storming in like he meant every word he spoke.
"Let me start by saying this, I'm proud of the way you stuck up for each other out there," he began, voice steady but charged with emotion. "That fight just now? Yeah, it got messy. I get it. I don't want to see this every week. But seeing you back each other like that? That's not just solidarity. That's family. That's what wins big matches."
Berisha gave a subtle nod to Banda, who grinned back, thumbs-up under his breath. Krstovic lifted his head, eyes sharper now. Gallo clenched his fists.
Alex's tone shifted, becoming firmer, more business-like. "But here's where we need to be smart. We've got a lead. We've rattled them. Don't let emotions give the referee a hyperactive trigger finger. We play with our heads first, hearts second. Keep composure. Keep discipline."
He stepped to the tactics board and circled a crude drawing of Fiorentina's midfield diamond. A couple of white and red circles stood in formation, indicating Lecce's positions.
"Listen up," he said, voice growing more energized. "They expect us to stay back. That was half one. That was them pressing, us defending. Now? We flip the script. First ten minutes of this half, we go front foot. Press high. Play forward. Hit them early and hard."
He wrote two bullet points: PRESS HIGH, PLAY FORWARD, HIT EARLY.
"Berisha," he continued, nodding to the thoughtful Albanian, "your range of passing is huge. When we win the ball, you need to look up and pick out the next man. Keep the tempo." He then looked at Ramadani. "You cover and protect behind him. Make sure they can't break through. Watch transitions."
Gallo and Dorgu exchanged glances. Alex turned to them. "You two, hit the wings. Pin them back. Make them pay for pushing forward. Cross to Krstovic or cut inside. Keep them guessing."
Krstovic straightened in his seat, Fire lighting his eyes. Banda cracked his knuckles, ready for whatever came next.
Alex took a deep breath, letting the words soak in. "Get this right, and we don't just win, we send a message. Not just Vicenzo, not just Fiorentina fans, but the rest of the league. We're not here to survive, we're here to conquer. Understood?"
Heads bobbed around the room. Some murmured quietly, others let out soft grunts of agreement. He could see the resolve building in their faces. This team was primed.
A whistle sounded from outside, faint but distinct. A match official appeared at the door.
"Coach. Two minutes."
Alex looked from the official to the room. "Thanks," he said calmly. He squared his shoulders and addressed his players one last time.
"You know what to do," he said quietly. "Now go out there and finish what we started."
The tunnel lights felt dim compared to the heat of the pitch. But as the players lined up and walked out, the roar rose back, electric, almost psychedelic in its intensity. The fans were on their feet, singing, chanting, waving banners. Loyalty and hope radiated from every corner. They believed now, full throttle.
Fiorentina emerged slower, shoulders tight, eyes focused. Their faces looked determined but strained, surprised by Lecce's unwavering intensity. The narrative they'd pinned on Lecce collapsed pre-halftime. Now they had to find a way back.
The referee blew the whistle. The second half began.
From the first touch, Lecce pounced.
Ramadani stepped forward into the midfield of Fiorentina, pressuring them near their own corner flag. Baschirotto intercepted a loose pass from Bonaventura and snapped it to Berisha.
Berisha took one clean touch, looked up, and surveyed the field. Banda was already sprinting down the right flank, anticipation in his stride. The ball zipped onto his path.
The crowd rose again, a wave of noise looming like thunder, as Banda accelerated. He was quick as a flash, legs pumping, breathing measured despite the pace. He reached the edge of the area and cut inside, turning sharply with a defender breathing down his neck.
He didn't hesitate. He looked at the keeper and fired a low shot toward the bottom corner.
The goalkeeper lunged and got a fingertip on it, pushing it wide. The net rippled behind him, and the stadium groaned.
["Oh my word what a chance?! What a chance?! Very good pass from Berisha there, sending that through ball through for Nicola Krstovic. The striker made no mistake as he got the ball and shot it but it seems like tonight is a night for the goalkeepers as we have just witnessed another incredible save]
Alex raised his arms, shouting wordlessly, proud and restless at the same time. He jumped forward and slapped his thigh, pulling in a deep breath as he watched Banda recover the ball.
That attack was so precisely what he'd drawn up. The tempo, the movement, the intent, it clicked like a key in a lock. But one effort wasn't enough.
The crowd sensed something special. They shouted for more. Flags waved, scarves whirled, whole stands bouncing in rhythm.
Fiorentina regrouped in the centre circle, trying to wriggle through their frustration. They passed sideways again, a tactic intended to reset. But Lecce didn't give them that luxury. They pressed, chasing every ball like it was their last.
On the sidelines, Alex mirrored the energy. He sprinted forward, shouting encouragement. His voice had real passion, no filter, no professional calm. Just raw conviction.
"Win this!" he yelled. "Win the second ball! Stay sharp!"
Back on the field, Lecce stayed at it.
Ramadani recovered another pass low down the left. He played it to Gallo, who switched it to Dorgu on the right. Fiorentina's defence began to shift, leaving gaps. The ball was recycled quickly. Banda found space again.
This time, he dribbled into the box, drew a foul, or so it seemed. The referee let play continue. Banda smirked, carried on, cut inside again, and shot low. The keeper blocked it and it fell straight to Krstovic, who took a touch and fired at close range.
The defender jumped in front and deflected it the wrong way. Corner kick.
["And once again Lecce are on the attack and once again a good effort is saved. Nice from Lameck Banda, just danced his way into the box but he couldn't complete the task and the ball into the back of the net. The ball's gone out for a corner and Lecce would be looking to capitalize on that opportunity"]
["I think the tide of the match has turned quite a bit since the beginning of the second half". The co-commentator said. "Lecce have come out of this half and they've asserted their dominance, creating two very good goal-scoring opportunities in the span of the first five minutes. I'm curious to what Alex told them in that locker room because whatever he said, he's got his players out here playing like men possessed"]
The sound in the stadium pulsated like a heartbeat. It was high, it was wild. Lecce had climbed out of a defensive shell and were now forging an attack. They'd seized the moment.
Fiorentina looked rattled, plainly rattled. Their passes meant something now. Every move could be countered. Their faces drained.
Alex turned, eyes ablaze. "That's right. Keep the pressure. Don't let up."
That first ten minutes of the second half had come and gone, but the tone had been set. Lecce had told the world they weren't just holding on, they were hunting.
Sometimes their passes were off. Sometimes the finish lacked polish. And yes, they left gaps behind occasionally. But in those gaps was their courage, their will, their hunger.
Lecce had transformed. The firm shape of halftime had evolved into an offensive mindset.
It felt like a phoenix rising from a fortress.
And the fans could feel it too.
This half was theirs. This hour. This story. They had momentum. They had belief. They had resolve. They wanted to win!
A/N: Bonus chapter! And it's quite long as well. Took everything in me not to split this into two chapters.
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Bonus chapter if we make it to 50 Power Stones this week, or three reviews.